By God, Richard liked these people. With a few exceptions like Cam or Jonas, he couldn’t imagine any of his so-called friends rallying to his assistance if he was in trouble.
“Mr. Evans, you should go home,” Fairbrother said coldly behind him. “With the vicarage in disarray and violence brewing, the Barretts need some peace.”
“No, no, not Mr. Evans,” the vicar wavered, clutching the shawl to his throat despite the fire burning in the grate. “Thieves wouldn’t dare threaten me with a strong young man in the house.”
Richard waited for a sign of approval from Genevieve, but she turned to stoke the fire. He frowned. What was wrong?
“They attacked today.” Impatiently Fairbrother slapped his gloves against his beefy thigh. “Evans wasn’t much use.”
“He wasn’t here,” the vicar retorted with unexpected energy. He looked past Genevieve to where Richard leaned against the window. “Please say you’ll stay. Surely it’s not presumptuous to call upon our friendship.”
For one burning moment, Genevieve’s glance fell on him. But when he tried to catch her eye, she fussed with refilling the posset cup.
“Of course I’ll stay,” he said, disregarding Fairbrother’s huff of disgust.
Curse his preternatural awareness of Genevieve. Her back was turned, but he saw her shoulders stiffen. Why wouldn’t she look at him? It seemed deuced queer when not long ago she’d begged him to touch her. Was it shame? Or had something else upset her?
What a fool he was. Of course she was distraught. Her home had been pillaged. Her quietness wasn’t aimed at him.
“Capital,” the vicar said, and Richard’s conscience twinged at the relief flooding the old man’s face. After all, while he’d never intended injury, his purposes were murky.
“I’ll let the ladies in.” Mrs. Warren looked less bereft now that she had a task.
“No, I will,” Richard said. When he reached the door, he turned briefly to find Genevieve at last watching him. Her face was stark with hatred.
Chapter Twenty
Lord Neville is right. We need to send Mr. Evans away.” Genevieve linked her hands at her waist to hide their shaking.
It was the afternoon following the burglary and she stood in the center of the parlor, at last mercifully free of predatory males. Lord Neville pursued his own investigations. Christopher, after shadowing her without encouragement since yesterday, had taken Palamon for a gallop. With just her father and aunt present, Genevieve snatched the opportunity to denounce the man she blamed for their trouble.
“Why on earth should we do that, dear?” Her aunt laid her knitting on her lap. She was still edgy, but calmer since restoring the house to order. “I feel safer with him here.”
“No, no, Mr. Evans must stay,” her father said urgently. “What flummery is this, Genevieve?”
Her father still started at the slightest sound and he’d taken to locking his library door. Right now he huddled near the blazing hearth, wrapped in the ubiquitous shawl.
Genevieve forced out the accusation she should have made after Christopher kissed her in the moonlight. Identifying him as a villain shouldn’t be so difficult. She knew his every word was a lie, but still her recalcitrant heart grieved at his duplicity.
Self-hatred rose like bile. How could she have kissed the swine without tasting his corruption?
Until now she’d been willing to consider Christopher’s suspicions of Lord Neville, but she now recognized the allegations as a clever way to distract her from his vile intentions. The evidence against the man who made her stupid with kisses was overwhelming. He’d broken in once already. And yesterday he’d delayed her in Oxford while his henchmen brutalized a helpless old man and a defenseless woman.
Most mortifying of all, Christopher’s hands had touched her body while the burglary took place. Her cheeks stung with shame. She was so gullible. Any fool could see that a sophisticated man like Christopher Evans would never desire an awkward bluestocking like her. There had to be an ulterior motive for his seduction.
“Mr. Evans is behind the break-ins.” Her voice was scratchy after too many tears. The deceitful cad wasn’t worth one sleepless minute, which hadn’t stopped her tormenting herself through the night.
She’d never expected her family to believe her immediately, but it was an unpleasant shock when her aunt laughed. “Don’t be silly. He’s a gentleman to his bootstraps.”
Genevieve stoutly refused to recall moments when he’d been less than gentlemanly. And she’d been less than a lady. He’d betrayed her; he’d flown her to heaven. She still couldn’t reconcile those two facts. Her stomach heaved with humiliation and outrage. Outrage above all. How could he touch her like that and all the while plot this cowardly crime?
“He broke in that night you went to Sedgemoor’s.” Curse her distress. It made her sound like a weepy female when she had to appear strong and sure.
“Nonsense,” the vicar said sharply. “That man was masked, wasn’t he? And you described a horrible ruffian when Mr. Evans has the prettiest manners. I despair of you, Genevieve, slandering a good man.”
“Papa,” she said helplessly, even as her heart sank at his stubborn expression. When he looked like that, nothing would shake him. “Trust me about this.”
“You took against Mr. Evans from the first. Heaven knows why.” His jaw jutted at an ominous angle. “Now, when you know the comfort I derive from his presence, you seek to deprive me of my one security. It’s too bad of you, Genevieve. Too bad.”
“Mr. Evans was in Oxford with you when it happened,” her aunt said. Genevieve found the sweet reason in her tone harder to counter than her father’s querulousness.
“Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?” Genevieve couldn’t, she just couldn’t, confess that she’d recognized Christopher as the intruder after he’d kissed her.
After he’d gone riding, she’d searched his bedroom for incriminating evidence. But the scoundrel kept few possessions with him and she found nothing to prove him a villain. Instead, she’d spent far too long breathing lemon verbena, an inevitable reminder of what he’d done to her. Should she need such a reminder, curse her.
Her aunt looked unconvinced. “If he was with you, how could he rob the vicarage?”
“He hired thugs. Whoever arranged this knew that the household lay unprotected.”
Her aunt resumed knitting, clearly dismissing Genevieve’s suspicions. “That could be anyone passing through Little Derrick. Why would you think Mr. Evans has wicked intentions?”
His intentions were wicked in all sorts of ways Genevieve didn’t want to recall. She flushed. “I remember his voice from that night.”
Her aunt regarded her as if she was mad. “After all this time?”
“Our troubles started when he arrived,” Genevieve said, even as she recognized that nothing would persuade either Aunt Lucy or her father that Christopher Evans meant them harm. She’d reviled his fatal charm before, but never with such virulence.
“Coincidence.” In other circumstances, she’d welcome the vicar’s spark of authority. Since yesterday, he’d been so cowed, it had wrung her heart, no matter his sins against her. “I won’t hear a word against him.”
“Papa—”
“I agree with your father, Genevieve.” Aunt Lucy’s voice softened. “We’re all upset and jumping at shadows. But that doesn’t mean you should leap to conclusions about innocent bystanders.”
Christopher was an innocent bystander the way she was a society belle. “You’re wrong,” she said flatly.
The disapproval in her father’s expression could still make her squirm. “I’d appreciate it if you kept these wild surmises to yourself, girl. If you bother Mr. Evans with this twaddle, he may take offense and leave.”
Which would be a fine thing in Genevieve’s opinion. She choked back a bitter sigh. It hurt that her family refused to listen to her. It hurt almost as much as discovering that Christopher had connived to keep her away from the vicarage yes
terday.
“Genevieve?” her father said sternly when she didn’t reply. “I want your word that you’ll never mention this silliness again.”
Frustration welled, prompting her to tell them exactly why she knew Christopher Evans was false. But her courage failed. Even after she exposed her shame, they’d probably still take his side.
She straightened and stared back at her father, wishing she felt angry rather than devastated. “I promise not to accuse Mr. Evans.”
Her father nodded, his brief vigor fading. “Very well. We’ll speak no more of this.”
No, they wouldn’t. From now on, she’d watch for incontrovertible evidence of Christopher’s crimes and pray that nobody got hurt in the meantime. The vicarage’s defense fell to her.
God help her.
“So she hates my guts.” Arms braced against the marble mantel, Richard stared into the roaring library fire.
It was almost a relief to be at Leighton Court, away from the vicarage’s simmering tensions. At least tonight he was sure that Genevieve and her family were safe. Thanks to Cam, half a dozen armed footmen watched the place.
He was worried sick about Genevieve. Lord Neville wasn’t finished, he just knew it. After orchestrating two unsuccessful burglaries to find the jewel, threatening her would be the logical next step. The problem was convincing her that she was in danger. The second problem. The first was getting her to listen to him instead of treating him like Satan incarnate.
“Does it matter that much?” Jonas Merrick, Viscount Hillbrook, slouched in his chair, contemplating his brandy. Jonas had reluctantly abandoned his beloved wife Sidonie and baby daughter to dine with Cam and Richard.
“Damn it, yes, it does,” Richard snapped, irritated at his friend’s bored tone.
He wondered if he could explain how he felt without revealing how he felt really. All his life, he’d struggled to hide his vulnerabilities beneath a careless façade. Although he had a grim perception that his friends knew him well enough to guess that more occurred here than a flirtation gone to the dogs.
As if to protest that description, Sirius opened one eye from where he snoozed on the hearth rug. Richard bent to fondle the dog’s ears. “I know I’ve made a deuced mess of it, old fellow. No need to scowl at me as though I’m a bottle short of a dozen.”
“I’ve never known you unable to charm your way into a woman’s good graces—and more.” Cam, ever the perfect host, rose to refill his friends’ glasses.
Three armchairs ranged before the flames. Jonas sat on the left, his scarred face masklike. Cam subsided into the center chair, watching Richard with an annoyingly knowing expression.
Enduring friendship and the loosening effects of liquor meant that Richard could no longer pretend an impersonal interest in Genevieve’s safety. Especially as he’d dearly love to enlist Jonas’s help.
“For you, one woman is much the same as the next,” Jonas said easily. “If this one resists, however lowering to your vanity, you’ll find another quickly enough.”
Cam understood him better than anyone, even Jonas. “I believe in this case, Richard has discovered that no other woman will do.”
Good God, he was blushing. What the hell was wrong with him? “Putting it too strongly, chum.”
Cam’s eyebrows rose eloquently although he merely said, “No doubt.”
Richard’s fist clenched against the marble. “I’m sure she blames me for this last break-in.” Either that or she felt devilish guilty about what they’d done at Oxford. “When she must know that I’d never place her family at risk.”
Cam’s brows remained elevated. “Must she?”
“Hell, yes.” Richard prowled across to stare out the window. The night was stormy, the wind rattling the sash windows, not at all like the idyll when he’d kissed Genevieve by the pond.
Jonas, who had heard a condensed version of Richard’s adventures in Little Derrick, spoke. “Perhaps she’s guessed that you’re an imposter.”
Richard shook his head. “If she had, she’d have me tossed out on my arse.”
“Maybe she merely discourages your interest,” Cam said from his chair. “She was a virtuous woman.”
“She is a virtuous woman,” Richard said shortly, wheeling restlessly to survey his friends.
“Good. I never approved of you ruining a girl who has to hold her head high in a small village.”
Richard felt his cheeks heat, like a naughty schoolboy brought before the headmaster. Cam always did the right thing. The fellow was no monk, but he confined himself to women who suffered no harm from his attentions, and like everything the duke did, he pursued his sexual interests in moderation.
Richard would lay money Cam had never been as hungry for a woman as he was for Genevieve. Lucky sod.
“So where is the jewel?” Jonas asked. Until his legitimacy had been confirmed, he’d lived outside high society, amassing a fortune that wouldn’t disgrace an emperor. He still thought like a man of business instead of a louche aristocrat.
Richard shrugged. “She wouldn’t tell me. Damn it, she won’t give me the time of day. I’m guessing from the lack of panic that it’s still stashed somewhere. If I were wagering on Genevieve outwitting a band of sneak thieves, Genevieve would win hands down. Her brainbox puts even yours to shame, Jonas.”
His childhood friend laughed softly. “I never thought the day would come when I’d hear you praising a female’s intelligence.”
Richard sighed. His friends’ mockery grew tiresome. They acted as if he’d bedded anything in skirts, whereas he’d always had high standards of beauty if not wits in his amours.
Cam stood and strolled forward. “Don’t you think it’s time you gave this up?”
“Gave what up?” His friends should know to take that dangerous tone seriously.
Of course Cam didn’t quail. “This whole misbegotten scheme. You set your heart on the jewel in a fit of temper. What difference will possessing it make? It can’t undo your bastardy.”
Richard’s hands curled at his sides. From any other man, that remark would invite a punch in the nose. “It confirms the succession.”
Cam’s expression conveyed his scorn. “Nothing can change Sir Lester Harmsworth’s sixteen months in St. Petersburg before your arrival.”
“Take care,” Richard murmured.
Cam sighed. “You’re wasting your time here. And getting in much deeper than you should, both to your detriment and to the detriment of Little Derrick’s residents.”
Richard flung away, knowing he behaved like a boor but unable to stop himself. Where, oh where was the sophisticate who had adorned a thousand London ballrooms? He’d felt likely to split into pieces ever since Genevieve had turned her back on him.
How right he’d been to fear her power. Although his wariness had done bugger all to stop him tumbling head over heels in love. What would his friends say if he declared that mawkish sentiment? They’d laugh themselves into next Sunday.
“Do forgive me,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “I’d so hate my racketing to smear your sterling reputation, Your Grace.”
Cam didn’t fly into a rage. He never did. Devil take him, Richard occasionally wished that something would ruffle that perfect façade, unearth some passion beneath the decorum. Instead Cam’s face tightened with sympathy. Hell, he didn’t want his friends feeling sorry for him.
“You know that’s not my primary concern.” Cam paused. “Although, yes, the longer this continues, the more likelihood of disaster and scandal. For you. For Dr. Barrett. For Miss Barrett. For me. After all, I introduced you to the neighborhood.”
“I want the jewel,” Richard said through tight lips.
From under lowered lids, Jonas observed his friends. “You’re doing precious little to get it.”
“I’d say he’s doing nothing at all,” Cam affirmed.
Richard shifted uncomfortably. He’d never taken advantage of the secrets he’d unearthed at the vicarage. Cam had a point, to Hades with him.
“I’m waiting for the optimum moment.” He paused. “Right now, I can’t do a blasted thing because bloody Fairbrother has posted a watchdog.”
His festering resentment since that perfect day in Oxford had only been exacerbated by the arrival of the bruiser Hector Greengrass. Fairbrother had infiltrated Greengrass into the vicarage ostensibly to protect the inmates. More likely to spy on Genevieve and Christopher Evans. But the decision had been made before Richard could lodge an objection. Greengrass slept above the stables and devoted his days to dogging Richard’s footsteps.
Aside from the man’s presence stymieing all attempts to get Genevieve alone, Greengrass struck Richard as a criminal type. It was like setting the cat to defend the mouse hole.
“Keep an eye on Fairbrother, Richard.” Jonas’s expression was serious. “Cam asked me to make inquiries. I hear disturbing rumors about sharp practices and stolen goods.”
Now, that was interesting. “Enough to set the law on him?”
Jonas shrugged. “Nothing substantiated, but my sources indicate that he’s a man with expensive tastes and an eye to acquisitions fit to empty a maharajah’s treasury.”
Richard frowned. “There. I can’t leave Miss Barrett at the swine’s mercy.”
“You’ve got a barrel of excuses for staying, old chum,” Cam said.
“If you wanted the jewel, you’d have it by now,” Jonas said ruthlessly.
“I want it.”
“Not enough,” Jonas retorted.
Cam sighed. “Stop glaring at me like an angry bear and come back to the fire. You need another drink.”
Richard didn’t comply with his friend’s half-humorous invitation. The reference to his bastardy had cut. It underlined how much he liked being legitimately born Christopher Evans.
“What can you achieve?” Jonas’s unreadable black eyes sent a cold chill through people who didn’t know him or who had reason to fear him. Even Richard, who considered him a man of unshakable honor, suppressed a shiver as that obsidian regard settled upon him. “Surely you don’t plan to devote your life to playing a rustic Romeo?”
A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin) Page 17
